


Silver Gaze

by daisynorbury



Series: Love is to yes [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, nothing false and possible is love (e.e. cummings poem)
Genre: Episode: s04e02 Silver Blaze, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, POV John Watson, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 12:05:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10853655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisynorbury/pseuds/daisynorbury
Summary: "It wasn’t the future I’d imagined as a young man, but what of it? Holmes often seemed to think me immovably conventional, and a month ago I might have accepted that judgement without comment, but it seems now that I am not so old that I can’t adapt, and not so staid that I can’t heed the call of love, even if its voice rings deeper than I dreamed."





	1. a universe beyond obey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [A_Candle_For_Sherlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Candle_For_Sherlock/gifts), [aquabelacqua](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquabelacqua/gifts).



> ...this would never have happened without their inspiration. A sequel wasn't in the plan, you know?  
> 1\. I shamelessly swiped (*cough* plagiarized) whole sentences directly from ACD, and in several cases not even from Silver Blaze. Out of context! Shame! (I resisted the temptation to footnote them all, but will happily do so if anyone wants me to.)  
> 2\. I have no brit- or Vic-picker or beta-reader, so this is probably full of problems. Now accepting applications by way of criticism. Don't be gentle. This is a first draft. Tell me what you think is wrong and I'll try to make it better.  
> 3\. I have a pet theory that Granada released Devil’s Foot and Silver Blaze one after the other because they shot both at once on the same trip to the West Country. My timeline follows Granada rather than ACD’s canon, obviously.  
> 4\. This Holmes-in-love owes something to Brett’s performance in “The Master Blackmailer”. You probably know the scenes I mean. They’re... so odd. That Holmes is innocent, uncomfortable, vulnerable, wistful, and far from the master of disguise that Watson claims. Or as [Matt Laffey described it](http://www.ihearofsherlock.com/2013/09/weekly-sherlock-links-compendium.html#.WQfMNdy1vcs): “what has to be the single most awkward (sexual) moment in the history of Sherlockian anything in any medium ever."  
> 5\. I'm [daisyfornost](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/daisyfornost) on tumblr, since I got tired of my username looking like it's a reference to ACD's Yellow Face and BBCSherlock's Six Thatchers. If I could change it on AO3 without all the parentheses nonsense, I'd have done it ages ago.

I admit with a pang of sadness (though hardly regret) that the account which I published in the Strand of the disappearance of the celebrated racehorse Silver Blaze and the death of his trainer Mr. John Straker, while true in chronology and execution, was nevertheless not an accurate reporting in every detail. I hope my readers will take comfort in the knowledge that my literary sins were ones of omission and re-direction rather than fabrication. The case itself was as remarkable as any of our adventures, but it was, for me, but the smaller part of our adventure on Dartmoor. Had the crime been committed only a month earlier, I have no doubt that Sherlock Holmes’ involvement in its resolution would have been just as I described, but as it fell less than a fortnight after the tragic poisonings of the Tregennis family and their unexpected influence on my friendship with the great detective, our circumstances at that time were rather more intimate than was considered suitable for the popular press. And here I will say that those of you expecting one of our usual little puzzles and the satisfaction of watching Holmes unravel it are, I’m afraid, bound to disappointment. I have already told of Straker’s thwarted cruelty, of Silas Brown’s opportunistic meanness, and of Silver Blaze’s triumph and Colonel Ross’s delight at Holmes’ deductions. I have already explained the significance of the lame sheep and the suspiciously silent dog. No, there is no mystery left in this tale over which a reader might ruminate- apart from the eternal riddle of the human heart- and therefore my retelling will prove quite different from my usual efforts. For tangled with every thread of that memory is the greater mystery that I was newly, wholly, recklessly in love. 

Holmes and I had come to a new understanding in the white cottage overlooking Poldhu Bay. I’d thought I knew him well- and myself- but there were depths in us both that likely would have remained hidden and unexplored had we never encountered the _radix pedis diaboli_ and stumbled, at long last, right into one another. He by deduction, and I, as usual, by bullheadedly blundering my way into a situation I was too blind to see. When Holmes came and knelt beside me, touched my arm and appealed to my experience, I found myself overcome with affection for him. But I should not have been so surprised, since I’d just spent over an hour ranging about the darkened moor chewing over my countless memories of him. Of us. Dashing about London setting the city to rights, bundled thigh to thigh in the close darkness of a cab, his gloved hand resting on my shoulder, or knee. Of us together at the theater, the barbershop, Simpson’s, the Turkish bath. And naturally at Baker Street, sharing supper, or warming ourselves side by side at the fire, wreathed in pipe smoke. His violin, my writing, his fond smile, my contentment. My sorrow and anger when he turned to the cocaine bottle, and how I missed him when we were apart. His infectious laughter. Of course I loved him. Of course. And there was nothing for it: Leaving him was almost too terrible to contemplate, but staying, knowing then what I knew to be true, was equally impossible. But needs must when the devil etc, so I returned to the cottage to face him. Him and the bleak and lonely old age that awaited me in civilized society. And to my everlasting astonishment, he laid his heart open before me. “Presumably you have some idea what a man does with someone he loves,” said he, and all I could think in that dawning moment was _Yes. By God yes._

“John.” 

“Yes.” 

“I don’t- ...If... ?” His eyes were downcast and his jaw muscle bunched. 

“Yes.” I turned my right hand palm up. He clutched tightly at my sleeve, then slid his fingers down into my waiting ones.

“Yes. Sherlock- “ finally he turned, grey eyes snapping up to mine, searching. I shifted in the chair, raised my left hand to his face. “Of course, my dearest friend...” I brushed a line down his cheek with my thumb, rested my fingertips under his jaw. “Anything you want.”

His lips parted and he stared for a moment, then suddenly stood. I gazed up at him in surprise. “Watson, your clothes are drenched. The estate agents will be justified in charging us for the replacement of that armchair. If you’ll change into something else, I’ll fetch the frame and build up the fire and we’ll have those dry in no time.”

I must have blinked in confusion. He smiled warmly, then stepped away and headed for the storage cupboard. “Step lively, doctor!” he called behind him, and I did. He was right, after all (there was no sense in sitting there, growing colder in my wet things), but it was clear that sending me out of the room just then was less a concession to the estate agents than an opportunity for us both to consider (soberly and independent of one another’s influence) this new adventure that beckoned us. I suppose he took full advantage of the opportunity. I for my part felt the least sober I had in years. 

When I emerged again in nightclothes and slippers (with a stack of wet wool in my arms), I saw that Holmes had pushed the white sofa close to the fire. He sat, leaning on two large pillows, wrapped once again in his crochet blanket, staring into the blaze. I propped the drying frame open beside the fire, and could feel his eyes on me as I draped jacket, shirt, and trousers over it. When I moved to sit beside him, he returned his gaze to the fire. I sat a few inches away, hands clasped in my lap. I waited, expecting him to want to speak first. I thought I should be worrying- about expectations, or old trauma, or the way he drew conclusions astronomically more quickly than I- but found that all I could feel then was glad. Glad and hopeful and curious. The firelight painted his handsome face with gold.

“Watson.”

“Yes?”

“I doubt I can understand the depth of your shock. I have lived with this knowledge for many years and found it… less insurmountable than you may think. Though I assure you I do not expect you to adjust to it quickly, or soon. Or necessarily at all.”

I laid my right hand carefully upon his left knee. “I’m not certain I know what would constitute ‘adjustment’.”

He looked down at my hand, then back at the fire. “But- while it might not be the example you would choose- I present myself as evidence that it _is_ possible.”

“Oh, Holmes.” I moved closer to him, so that our sides touched, and moved my arm to his back. I spread my fingers wide across the space between his shoulder blades. How long had he loved me in hopeless silence? “How blind I have been. I am so sorry. Have you been… how have you been...?” I didn’t know what to ask.

He turned to face me, back slipping away under my hand. He searched my face before dropping his eyes to a space below my left shoulder. He swallowed, and inhaled. “Not without struggle.”

I expected him to elaborate, and indeed I think he tried- I could see his mind whirring away- but he said no more. I cupped his cheek and could feel the tension there. “Well.” I smoothed my fingertips over his temple gently. He met my eyes. “No more.” I found his hand with my free one and squeezed. “No more struggling, not tonight.” He shook his head just slightly under my palm and raised an eyebrow in silent question. “Whatever it is you want, just now, do it.” And instantly he gathered me into his arms.

He buried his face in my neck and held me against him securely. He was not in full health, but still strong, and I think that withdrawing from his embrace just then would have been a feat for a man of twice my energy. Not that it occurred to me to try. I thrilled at his strength, reveled in the smooth sweep of his hands over my ribs. And then he was humming and pressing kisses to my collarbone through my clothes. I stole a hand to his nape, pushing my fingers through the fine, soft strands of his hair. I drew his face up gently, sliding his cheek along mine as he rose. “Holmes,” I whispered, and brushed my thumb over the curl of his lower lip.

Our faces were so close I could feel his warm breath on my chin. “You must understand,“ he rumbled, “I am unaccustomed…” I waited. His eyes swept down my face to my mouth, and back again. “Never in my life have I invited physical intimacy. There were circumstances in my youth…” He inhaled and pursed his lips. “And since then, even had I found the trust necessary to welcome such indulgences, still would I have considered them a disadvantage.”

I couldn’t argue with that, not in fairness. All too obvious were the risks faced by those who- in a society keen to condemn anything more imaginative than a waltz- could not ignore the ballet in their souls. But I wanted to hear his reasons rather than assume. “A disadvantage?” 

His voice was so low it was nearly a whisper. “To maintaining the singularity of purpose and mental acuity necessary for my work.”

I was determined not to laugh. My friend was inarguably peculiar, and never would I ask him to be something other than himself, but sometimes… Not now, though. The dear man had just confided to me at least three difficult and extraordinary things, and holding that thought foremost in my mind allowed me to quell the urge to chuckle at his implication that he remained inexperienced into his forties because he was inescapably engrossed in the investigation of crime. 

I kept my face still. At least I hope I did. “And now?”

After a moment he shut his eyes and raised his hand to cover mine at his cheek. “Now the case is solved. And I’m on holiday.”

If Sherlock Holmes had chosen _me_ for this honor, I’d be damned if I couldn’t be worthy of it. I leaned forward until our foreheads met, then touched my lips to his. 

  


I have learned over the years not to let Holmes’ dazzling talents intimidate me too much. Love him I do, but one cannot remain permanently awestruck- it is too exhausting. Neither can one share rooms (and life) with a man for so long without learning a thing or two of his more human qualities. And while he is my unquestionable superior in many areas, there are a few where I am both glad and proud to provide what he lacks. And so I led him slowly through a progression of kisses: the lightest brush at first, until he pressed his lips to mine. I stilled, willing him to discover and enjoy every part of this, then parted my lips on an inhalation and felt him catch the lower between his own. And then he was coaxing my mouth open, exploring breath and teeth and tongue, and his hands slid inside my dressing gown and it occurred to me that perhaps I was no longer leading. 

He leaned back into the pillows and drew me down with him, onto him, our bodies pressing together, my ear at his shoulder and his arms enfolding me. It was blissful. He said, “When the fire dies down, will you come to my bedroom? Stay warm with me tonight?”

I nodded, or perhaps rubbed my cheek against his chest. _Of course. Of course._ “I’d like that very much.”

And so it was with lighter hearts that we returned to the city, and over the next week we learned anew how our two lives fit together at Baker Street.


	2. us will ourselves continue to outgrow

Only now that I’ve escaped from under its weight do I recognize how entrenched I’d become in my identity as a widower. Before Mary I had often wished for a companion, but after her death I told myself that my chance for love had come and gone, and that was that. I was stubbornly grateful to have known such happiness and comfort, even for such a short time. _Few men are ever so lucky. Most do far worse. Loneliness is just so much useless self-pity._

That first week back in London, I felt as though the facade of my habitual self-image were crumbling away, and that which had seemed clear and promising in the privacy of a remote Cornish cottage became fraught in the cold light of the city. Fear, elation, confusion and hope chased one another ‘round my heart a dozen times a day, none overcoming any other for more than an hour or two, and often several at once. I was a man reborn, though mostly unprepared for my new world. When Holmes and I were in public, I could barely contain my pride at his genius and wonder that a mind like his held me in such high regard. I found myself examining every word we exchanged for fear of betraying our secret, second-guessing every look, worrying over every tiny, casual touch. And when we were alone, the fervour of our mutual attraction both thrilled and unsettled me. It was as if we had spent twenty years banking the parlour fire, and the moment we swept the ashes aside it jumped the grate and set the Persian carpet alight. I longed to touch him. Craved his attention. Tried to converse but lost my train of thought at a smile from him. And so when he announced his intention to return to the West Country to investigate the racehorse’s disappearance, naturally I could make no other reply than, “I should be most happy to go down with you if I should not be in the way.” To which he smiled a conspiratorial smile and declared, “My dear Watson, you would confer a great favour upon me by coming. And I think that your time will not be misspent, for there are points about the case which promise to make it an absolutely unique one.”

Unique indeed. Never before nor since had I embarked upon one of our cases in such a mood. It was our first blush and I was giddy with it. I understood that it bordered on foolhardy, but that would hardly stop me. And so it happened that an hour or so later I found myself in the corner of a first-class carriage flying along en route for Exeter. Holmes sat directly across, and I seemed unable to see anything but his sharp, eager face framed in his ear-flapped travelling cap. My readers who have never seen him and have only Sidney Paget’s illustrations with which to imagine his appearance are at a sad disadvantage. The fault is certainly not Mr. Paget’s though; he is a talented artist and I’m delighted with the life and sensitivity his pictures bring to my stories. It is rather the limitations of the medium: no drawing could capture the way Holmes’ long, dove-colored greatcoat and matching cap accentuate his beautiful grey eyes. (In fact I have a private suspicion that he chose those garments for that very reason.) And at this moment, his remarkable silver gaze looked me up and down as if he meant to devour me. He had already related the essential facts of the case, what the local police had done in the matter, and the theory that he suspected Inspector Gregory had already formed. “That is the case as it appears to the police,” he’d said, “And improbable as it is, all other explanations are more improbable still.”

I had lain back against the cushions while he was talking, puffing at my cigar, and when he stopped, he leaned forward, his long, thin fingers reaching for the edge of the window-curtains. “I shall very quickly test the matter when I am once upon the spot, and until then I cannot really see how we can get much further than our present position.” He drew the curtain nearest me closed, and then the one on his side of the cabin. “And since we have a little time yet before we reach Tavistock, perhaps we can have a word about the other matter.” Which was the small one of our plan for the night. And which- he informed me now- was a room at the Cornish Arms on West Street, which he had reserved by telegram that morning, before he’d ever told me of his intention to travel today. A private room above the bar, with a fireplace and its own bath, and one, large bed. Which is not the sort of thing one expects of a pair of middle-aged gentlemen down from the city to assist the local police. Still, beggars can hardly be choosers on such short notice, eh? “Certainly sir, as you say,” said the landlord, the very picture of Devonshire friendliness. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Inspector Gregory and Colonel Ross met us at the station, and from there the evening developed much as I described it before: we stopped at King’s Pyland to examine the evidence, spoke with Straker’s widow, walked onto the moor to inspect the place where his body had been, found the hollow with Silver Blaze’s hoofprints in the mud, visited Mapleton and had words with Brown, and returned to Straker’s home. And here I come to my only outright lie: I reported that Holmes said “My friend and I return to town by the night-express. We have had a charming little breath of your beautiful Dartmoor air.” 

It suited my purpose, at the time, to let Holmes-the-character get his dramatic dig at Ross, whose remarked-upon cavalier attitude toward my friend was indeed real. But in fact, we took our leave of the colonel and Inspector Gregory with little fuss, since remaining in the neighborhood appeared not at all as if we were abandoning the case. He had his brief but illuminating conversation with the stable-lad, and as we drove back to town Holmes was secure in his conviction that he’d solved the thing already. I could see that he was extremely pleased, for he chuckled and rubbed his hands together.

Supper at the inn was simple and generous, and afterward the landlord showed us upstairs to our room. He lit the lamps and the coal fire, said goodnight, and closed the door behind him.

We were left standing side by side, regarding the wide bed. There was no bed like it at 221B. I found myself feeling nervous on Holmes’ behalf. His intentions- in the broadest sense- were clear (he was the one who made this booking, after all), but the details were anyone’s guess. 

I propped our suitcase against the wall, turned to him and placed my hands just below his elbows. He looked down at me with a slightly dazed expression and I found myself wishing I were taller. “Holmes,” said I, “I’m not at all bothered about ‘what a man does with someone he loves’, as you put it. You and I in the privacy of our room are bound by nothing- not expectations, not the law, and certainly not convention. I hope it’s already clear that I would ask nothing of you that you don’t want as much as I, and can think of no better way for us to approach this than as the scientists we are.” 

His face split in a wide smile. “Watson.” Quiet laughter bubbled up. “You are the stormy petrel of sex.”

My consternation must have shown on my face for he only laughed harder. I stepped back, fists on my hips in indignation. “You blighter! You know damn well this night is entirely your doing!”

He was quick to react, arms encircling my waist. “Oh no, oh that would never do.” He bent to kiss the crease of my jaw, whisper ghosting over my ear. “It’s your doing I want tonight, at least as much as mine.” He drew my earlobe between his lips and sucked, once, less gently than I’d have predicted. “And I quite agree: we shall experiment, and gather evidence, and test hypotheses, and perhaps come to some… conclusions.”

I blinked in surprise. This was not the approach I expected a virgin to take, even one as atypical as he. Not that he’d been anything less than enthusiastic in our forays into sensuality, but thus far they had remained innocent. He hadn’t mentioned again the “circumstances in his youth” that made trust elusive, but I hadn’t forgotten, and was quite prepared to take all the time he wanted to establish such between us. At Baker Street we had kissed many times, and massaged one another’s shoulders and backs and hands and feet, and fallen asleep curled together on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket. And when my desire for him grew more carnal I was content to take myself off to my bedroom to deal with it alone. Until today I had neither seen, heard, nor felt any evidence that he hoped to introduce sex into our relationship, and I wanted to avoid giving him the impression that I considered it necessary. I didn’t. I could hardly claim I didn’t consider it _desirable_ (for desire him I certainly did), but it was his company, comfort, and happiness that I wanted above all, and if sex was any kind of threat to those then I’d cheerfully go without. 

He opened my jacket, pulled it from my arms, draped it over a chair, and then stood very close, slowly unbuttoning my waistcoat from top to bottom. 

“I should leave the deductions to you, but… you appear to be undressing me.”

“Excellent, Watson, excellent,” murmured my companion. “We’ll make a detective of you yet.” When he reached the last button he did not move to slip the waistcoat over my shoulders as I expected, but instead continued the unfastening down to my belt and trousers. And if sex _wasn’t_ any kind of threat to the aforementioned company etc, then I’d cheerfully go with “shag him senseless” or whatever else he liked. 

It was my turn, and I made short work of his jacket, waistcoat, tie and collar. “I never mentioned it for obvious reasons, but for years I was convinced that you must have been quietly taking lovers under my very nose, and were simply so stealthy about it that I never saw a one of them, even those you brought home to Baker Street.”

He retreated a bit, shirt half-unbuttoned. “Really?”

“Certainly. I assumed you deduced as much, and didn’t care that I knew.”

“And that knowledge, while erroneous, did not disturb you?”

“I could hardly begrudge anyone such a basic comfort, even a man who claims no need of it. Perhaps especially a man who claims no need of it. And now I find...” I reached inside his shirt and stroked the skin of his belly with the backs of my fingers. 

Part of my heart had already broken at the discovery that he- believing me beyond his reach- had resigned himself to a life without love, but the larger part had come to understand that he was balanced on the brink of a headlong dive into joy that he’d believed he would never know. And that I- who’d believed that same joy gone forever- was the luckiest man on God’s green earth.

He loosened my tie with both hands, pulled it free, and dropped it to the floor. “What?”

“I find that it was I myself denying you it.”

“Hardly that. Circumstances were as you found them, and neither of us could see the real truth. I could have chosen otherwise.” He pushed my shirt open and I shrugged it off. 

“You could have anyone you wanted.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m serious: Who could resist you? You must have had offers.”

He leaned down and placed a kiss on my bare shoulder, hands coming to rest at my hips. “Perhaps one or two.”

“But?”

“A disadvantage, as I said.”

I turned my hand and slid it up over his chest. “Still. Either way, I am sorry. That I couldn’t see it. I’m sorry you had to wait.”

He closed the small distance between us, breath gusting out of him when his torso met mine. He squeezed me to him, face in my hair, hands on my back. And an unambiguous warmth at my hip.

No, it wasn’t the future I’d imagined as a young man, but what of it? Holmes often seemed to think me immovably conventional, and a month ago I might have accepted that judgement without comment, but it seems now that I am not so old that I can’t adapt, and not so staid that I can’t heed the call of love, even if its voice rings deeper than I dreamed.

“The opportunity for love has been so uncommon, and of such personal importance to so many people, that our society is suffering from a plethora of surmise, conjecture, and hypothesis. The difficulty is to detach the framework of fact- of absolute undeniable fact- from the embellishments of theorists and reporters. Then, having established ourselves upon this sound basis, it is our duty to see what inferences may be drawn and what are the special points upon which the whole mystery turns.”

Those are the words Sherlock Holmes chose to seduce me. Of course they worked. _Of course._ I pressed my own unambiguous warmth into him and growled, “Come to bed, Holmes. It’s high time we established some facts.”

~o0o~

Some time later we’d snuffed the lamps and bundled together under the blankets in only the soft glow of the fireplace. Sleepy and sated, he yawned and said, “I never get your limits, Watson. There are unexplored possibilities about you.”

I chuckled and patted his hip. “Ah, my friend. Just wait.”

“I will if you insist upon it, but I would rather not wait very long.” I’m glad there was no one but him to see my expression then, since I expect it was more foolishly fond than any I had ever worn. “And… there’s something else I never told you.”

“Oh?”

“Shall I give you a clue?”

“If you don’t I doubt I’ll ever guess.” 

He stroked one long finger down the length of my arm, and then leaned over and kissed me a lingering moment. 

I sighed in deep contentment. “If that is a clue I shall endeavour to require a great deal of help untangling your mystery.”

He barked a laugh. “You are developing a certain unexpected vein of pawky humor, Watson, against which I must learn to guard myself. No, it is this: We have a tradition where you read aloud to me the society headlines, and sometimes the articles below.”

“Yes, and?”

“Why is that? Clearly I could read them myself.”

It was true, we’d been doing that for years. Maybe since the beginning- I couldn’t remember when or why I’d started. Had he asked me? Why? Had there been a time when he couldn’t or didn’t want to read for himself (illness? headache?) and I offered to step in? It was plausible, but why would I have continued after he’d recovered? No, I think it was just that I’d had the paper first one day, and saw an item I thought would interest him, and read it out. Oh! He was probably at his worktable at the time, mixing chemicals or comparing tobacco ash or some such, and found it convenient. With a friend there he could conduct experiments and listen to the paper at the same time. He’d encouraged me to continue, and it became a habit. Except that more often than not when I read him the headlines, all he did was look out of the window. Or not even that: he just sat on the sill with his eyes closed, smoking and smiling.

_Oh._

_Really?_

“Holmes, you… You like my voice.”

His eyes slipped to the side and his nostrils flared for a fraction of a second. “Honestly, Watson, you call yourself a writer? Of all the wealth of English verbs available to describe my feelings about your voice, you settle on ‘like’?”

“Damnit all, man, it’s late and people in this inn are trying to sleep. Stop making me laugh!”

“I _adore_ your voice, John. Crave it. Marvel at and luxuriate in. Lust after. I _relish_ your voice.”

“Perhaps even as much as your own!”

“And never have you used it so beautifully as you did tonight.”

So naturally my hand found his hip again, and I will follow his advice and replace ‘patted’ with ‘caressed’.

“Ah, my friend. Just… you… wait.”

.  
.  
.  


**Author's Note:**

> 1\. nothing false and possible is love  
> (who’s imagined,therefore limitless)  
> love’s to giving as to keeping’s give;  
> as yes to if,love is to yes
> 
> must’s a schoolroom in the month of may:  
> life’s the deathboard where all now turns when  
> (love’s a universe beyond obey  
> or command,reality or un-)
> 
> proudly depths above why’s first because  
> (faith’s last doubt and humbly heights below)  
> kneeling,we--true lovers--pray that us  
> will ourselves continue to outgrow
> 
> all whose mosts if you have known and i’ve  
> only we our least begin to guess
> 
> -e.e. cummings
> 
> 2\. And since I can no longer resist the urge to footnote:  
> (This doesn't add anything to the story, so skip it if you don't care.)  
> "You are the stormy petrel of crime, Watson" is from The Naval Treaty.  
> "I never get your limits, Watson. There are unexplored possibilities about you" is from The Sussex Vampire.  
> "You are developing a certain unexpected vein of pawky humor, Watson, against which I must learn to guard myself" is from The Valley of Fear.  
> "Hardly that" is from The Priory School (and probably elsewhere).  
> The mangled quotes from Silver Blaze are too many to list.
> 
> I have twisted their original meanings to my own ends. Such is fanfic.


End file.
